


What Doesn't Kill You

by herbeautifullie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst, Community: hh_sugarquill, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbeautifullie/pseuds/herbeautifullie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James remembers when zombies came in stages, when you got points for each one you shot and when all you had to do was open secret doors to discover a new, practically infallible weapon. It was a time when the rules to live by consisted of joking 'double tap's and 'cardio!' because that's what zombies had been: a joke, something everyone laughed at and spent hours arguing  about how to survive, featured in books and costumes at Halloween to get a rise out of little kids who screamed and dropped their sweets.</p><p>But when they stopped being a joke and actually became a reality, they weren't <i>funny</i> anymore and, frankly, no Xbox in the world could have trained him for <i>this</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Doesn't Kill You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [etacanis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etacanis/gifts).



> Pressure, pressure, _pressure_! I'm the _super_ lucky girl who got to write for [hh_sugarquill](http://hh-sugarquill.livejournal.com/)'s amazing mod and, let me tell you, it wasn't half as awkward as I worried it would be but it was very, _very_ tough. [etacanis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/etacanis/pseuds/etacanis) writes the most poignant version of Teddy and James I could ever imagine so, to try to work with characters she's mastered was nerve-wracking. Also, this world was entirely new to me and involved a lot of (wonderfully hilarious) hours of internet research and some ~~very embarrassing~~ flailing. I had no idea zombies were taken so seriously, guys... 
> 
> Thanks so much to [Summer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SdSmith) for being my go-to zombie expert and pointing me in the direction of tons of zombies for research purposes (Dawn of the Dead was my favourite but, negl, 28 Weeks Later had me a little nervous to walk to my car at the end of the night!) and to [Ing](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ingberry) for breaking out of her own zombie-free shell to look over this for me and for informing me that, though the house I looked at had palm trees, I was going to look like a moron if I actually _said_ palm trees. ;) 
> 
> The epilogue is _optional_ meaning if you are happy with the ending as it is, stick with it. ♥

James remembers when zombies came in stages, when you got points for each one you shot and all you had to do was open secret doors to discover new, practically infallible weapons. There were mystery boxes then – monkeys that attracted the attention away from you long enough to follow the white arrows that guided you to a new area and new abilities and he'd bitched at Al more times than he can remember for not making it in time to save him when he was in last stand, still firing his pistol in hopes of surviving to the next round.

It was a time when the rules to live by consisted of joking 'double tap's and 'cardio!' because that's what zombies had been: a joke, something everyone laughed at and spent hours arguing about how to survive, featured in their books and their costumes at Halloween to get a rise out of little kids who screamed and dropped their sweets.

But it hadn't been funny, not in the slightest. It had been just as terrifying as people had imagined, had suggested in numerous films and horror stories where they talked about waking up one morning in an empty London, alone and hungry while flesh-eating creatures roamed through dark corridors and waited, watching before they came to feast on whatever piece of your body their hands and mouths could hold. His family had woken to a blue, squealing telly screen and an eerily quiet street, devoid of any signs of life.

They'd thought Lily was still asleep, a strange behaviour for the early riser of the family, especially since she'd gone to bed early the night before claiming illness. Albus had joked that it was a sign of the end of the world, Lily being in bed past ten. Milk had dribbled down his chin when he'd said it, green eyes wide and bright in the yellow light through the window and James wishes he would have known, could have foreseen the truth because he'd told Al to ''shut his fucking gob and wipe his mouth", added that he was a disgusting wanker for talking while he was eating and walked away, kicking doors shut behind him as he'd gone.

His dad had ignored them both, reading the title of the morning's newspaper aloud as James had stomped past, like anyone cared about the fire at Meadow Park Lodge. He'd said as much on his way up the stairs, feet slamming all the way up to the next landing.

And, really, how is he meant to live with the knowledge that the last thing he'd said to his little brother had been so absolutely fucking cruel? And Lily – Christ, _Lily_ – who he'd claimed was faking illness to go up and sneak a ring into her boyfriend the night before without having to worry about their parents bothering her, too fearful of waking their sick little girl.

Even his dad, who'd given him a sad sort of look and said, "James, come on – try and have a good morning with us, yeah?" hadn't received a final word of kindness.

No, the zombies he wanted were the kind he'd experienced before – the kind that were chosen, turned on and off at will and joked about in the films. 

The zombies he has, however, don't go away at the press of a button and no Xbox in the world could have trained him for _this_.

☣

He's rummaging the shelves of a local grocer in broad daylight, shop doors propped open with what's left of a twisted red car door.

It's been thirty-six days since June 22nd, The Morning Everything Went to Absolute Shit. Thirty-one days without power and the water is growing murky now, tinged with a shade of a brown that James decides is not worth risking. He's lived in three different attics, built shelter that was invaded and has lost more supplies then he's managed to eat. His escape count is up to nineteen, little less than one a day since he was separated from his parents and Albus in an attempt to escape from a rabid-faced, red-eyed Lily but he thinks that with every scrape by he learns something new about them, about the monsters who haunt his nights with the sound of their feet dragging slowly across the pavement, too alive and too inquisitive for something meant to be mindless as they search high and low for food of their own, for survivors like him who lost track of time and found themselves out at night or who haven't learned the patterns of Devon's newest, flesh-hungry visitors.

The visitors aren't the only ones who are hungry though. James hasn't had more than wet bread in nearly two days and his stomach is in opposition of his hiding, has brought him here to push aside moulded meat and expired fruit in plastic cups in hopes of finding a tin of something that might taste decent cold.

Dropping his bat to the floor with a clatter, James shoves a dented tin of chicken and mushroom pie in his satchel with one hand as he pushes aside the cracked tins in search of a few more salvageable ones, almost driven to cheering aloud when he finds three tins of spicy meatballs and beans in a corner, tucked behind a good tin of sweet and sour chicken. He's happy with his search, with the two jugs of water he found in the previously-rummaged back of the shop and the tins of food he'd rather eat than moulded bread and overripe fruit.

A soft breeze carries in the scent of the lavender planted around the pavement as he makes his way toward the front of the shop, satchel heavy against his side. It smells calm – soothing, even – and is the exact opposite of the state of disarray surrounding it, a single bit of colour left in a dark, cold world where smoke has finally stopped rising from upturned cars and the doors of buildings creak with tired, grinding noises after being beaten and rampaged in a effort to find the few living souls who might have been hiding behind their locks and bolts.

It's the relaxing scent of lavender he blames for allowing Teddy to sneak up on him, get close enough to grip his shoulder so tightly it bruises for a week after. His attention has been keen, on point, since he first started hiding and he's studied their patterns, learned when they're hungriest and how they decide where to search for sustenance. They shy from the light, wait until the sun is hidden before they crawl free of their hiding spaces – the ravaged homes of families who'd attempted to survive, boarded their windows and nailed their doors – and James is safest in the daylight, safe enough to raid for food and water and supplies that might give him the upper-hand needed to survive one day longer, meet one more sunrise with _dreams_ and _hopes_ and thoughts that aren't solely focused on devouring human flesh. 

Teddy, though, is furious. He growls, "Are you fucking _crazy_? Wandering around with no way to protect yourself? How have you _survived_ this long?"

"Fucking hell!" James steps back, rips his shoulder from Teddy's grasp. He almost pokes Teddy in the chest and tells him off for assuming he's stupid enough to come out empty-handed when he knows it's unsafe but before he can, he realises that it's _Teddy_ , full-bodied and not attempting to chew the meat away from his bones. After that realisation, his entire demeanour changes. He's not longer worried about the slight pain in his shoulder because there's someone he knows, _family_ , that is still alive and he bites his lip to cut off the need to cry because he's not a bloody _girl_ and tears are for people who are weak, not _survivors_.

Instead, he reaches for a hug that crushes his ribs against Teddy's and mumbles, "Christ, it's so good to see you! I've – You've no idea how – Fuck! How – Teddy, mate, the world is buggered and I –"

Teddy's body is solid and warm, shirt damp with sweat and splatters of dark brown across the front but James doesn't care. He tightens his arms around Teddy's neck and stays close. Somehow, some way, Teddy found his way from York to Devon and that's all that matters right now – that and the feel of someone's heart against his, beating rapidly and pumping with pure, uninfected blood.

Teddy is still against him, chest hardly moving with his breathing and arms limp at his sides until they rise to meet James' shoulder, gripping him tightly as they push him away. His face is hard and brave, jaw set and eyes focused. "Why are you alone?"

James looks away at the empty street and hears nothing but the ragged sound of Teddy's breathing and his own. "Have been for awhile," he answers simply, hoping Teddy will leave it be.

"Your parents?"

Of course not.

James shrugs. He doesn't want to talk about it, to answer aloud and make it more true because he likes to think that because he hasn't faced them yet, they might still be human somewhere, deep in hiding and waiting for it all to pass the same way he is.

Teddy murmurs, " _Christ_ , James" and tugs at his fringe with both hands, over-long hair thick and dark between his grime-covered fingers as he stumbles back a step, mumbling something James can't quite hear.

He assumes they're dead. James doesn't agree.

He doesn't argue, either.

A moment passes, too long for comfort. The disappointment is heavy between them, clear in Teddy's gaze. "No power, obviously, but is there still water here?" he finally asks.

James nods, says, "No heat and I wouldn't drink it, but it runs."

"I'm sold; lead the way, then," replies Teddy, retrieving one of the jugs of water from the floor where James dropped it and gestures for him to lead the way.

☣  


They spend the night above a café in Torquay. It was family-owned before The Morning Everything Went to Absolute Shit and though the flat has only one bed and creaking floorboards, it's easy enough to nail some spare boards over the hatch that granted them entry and the undead outside don't seem interested in the coffee beans and spoiled milk spilled across the floor downstairs.

The way they avoid the building says as much. 

Teddy wipes the dirt from his hands and face with the last clean rag and drops it in the bucket of murky water before him. As James, cross-legged on the floor with knife and tin in hand, suggests, Teddy avoids drinking it.

He drinks from one of the water jugs instead, chest heaving as he swallows directly from the bottle and plastic crumpling loudly in his hand when he's done and tosses it to the side. Teddy asks, "How long since it started here?" and doesn't look surprised when James promptly replies, "Little over a month."

Silence settles again, occasionally interrupted by a shriek from down below and the slow carving noise of James' knife against the steel of the tin's lid, but James thinks it's been ten or more minutes before Teddy speaks again, quietly asking: "What happened to your parents? Al? Lily?"

"Lily was... first – early." The knife keeps on, up and down around the edge, little sawing motions that give James an excuse to not look up. He's too fucking tired for this right now.

"First?"

"Yeah. She went to bed early, said she wasn't feeling good--"

"That's how it started; people claimed they were sick and... Well, there wasn't much time for details before the news fell but hospitals went first. You lived close to Torbay so it doesn't surprise me how quick your neighbourhood went. Did they act in the daylight, then?" At James answering nod, Teddy sighs, continues, "Right. Figured. It doesn't bother them for the first couple of days; they don't get hesitant of it until later. Strange, yeah?"

"Strange," agrees James, remembering how Lily had attacked during the day, broad beams of light flooding the hallway when she'd chased him, windows shattered and curtains torn as he'd struggled to tug Albus along through his shock – his _terror_ – closer to the stairs where they might have some advantage, some place to hide.

"Everyone else?"

James doesn't elaborate. He says, very simply and without hesitation, "Gone" and Teddy seems to accept that that's the best he's going to get for the time being.

"What's it like in York?" James asks, pleased when the jagged lid is cut enough to grant him entry to the chicken and mushroom pie. His mouth is full of the food, lukewarm and tasting just a little off but easily the best thing he's had in nearly a week, when Teddy reaches over with a spare fork and steals a bit of his chicken, gravy dripping across the floor between them as he brings it to his mouth. James grumbles, "what a fucking waste," and _does not_ consider swiping at it with his finger and eating it anyway.

When you consider eating room temperature mushroom gravy off of a dusty floor it really clicks that your life fucking sucks and something _has_ to change.

He avoids it, though, shovelling more pie in his mouth as Teddy tells him about York being a bit better off – "More people to be found, at least" – but that their water has been long gone and that the young ones – the inhuman things who don't fear the sun – are abundant and _intelligent_ , tottering about at all hours and _searching_ where the ones from earlier, the ones from the beginning, move rather aimlessly, attacking when they see something rather than _looking_ for something to attack.

James hadn't noticed that.

"So they're still a little bit of themselves, then? In the beginning?"

Teddy looks dubious – _frustrated_. He shakes his head firmly, just once, and stabs his fork into James' tin. Around a bit of mushroom, he says, "There's not enough of themselves to save, James. There's no – once they're gone, there's no getting them back."

"But you're not sure."

"I'm fucking perfectly sure, James. If there was a way I'd be out there now with you, trying to find them but there's _no – fixing – this_."

James stills, argument prepared but forgotten as a crash sounds from below, ceramic tea cups probably shattering across the floor. Teddy moves quickly, efficiently with quiet steps to the hatch in the floor. He presses his ear to thick wooden boards, breath quickening the longer he listens. His gun is somewhere in the pile of the clothes he was wearing earlier and he motions toward them, waving his hand anxiously when James' fingers finally find the cool steel between the tattered shirt and ripped trousers.

"They're down there?"

Teddy doesn't really have to answer. There's another crash, a shriek of outrage and the sound of something ripping from the wall, likely the stained lace curtains James tugged shut earlier to give him some sort of coverage as he'd snagged wash rags and a bucket from the café's kitchen. The signs are all telling enough without the nod Teddy gives him, a single finger pressed to his lips as he gets up from the floor and steps back. 

He pushes James back toward the single bedroom and whispers, unconvincingly, "Go on, get some sleep. They won't be down there long; there's nothing to make them want to stay."

True to his word though, they don't linger. Within an two hours it's silent downstairs again and the lingering sound of footfall fades, the street devoid of inhuman beings from James' view from the window. He tip-toes to the living room where Teddy's face is stony and flushed in the pale yellow light of his own candle as he sleeps.

It's strange that they've managed to fall into their old ways so easily. The environment, the decay of the world as they know it, has given them a false sense of comfort in each other. James' anger with Teddy, even now that he thinks about it, seems too pitiful to even brother bringing up.

To be fair, it hadn't seemed such a small issue at the time. Two years ago when Teddy had been offered his job in York, it'd been James he left behind. He'd promised James a place in his life the second he was settled, offered to keep contact through texts and rings and weekend visits but James had screamed, refused and been foolish enough to demand everything or nothing at all.

Teddy hadn't tried to contact him after that. James hadn't made any effort to contact Teddy, either.

His mum had told him once or twice he was behaving like a child. They'd all missed Teddy, his dad more than anyone and he recognised the strain in Teddy's Christmas letter, the way their plans to have dinner together never worked was always blamed on work but was mostly James' fault.

He wonders what his mum would say now if she was around to see him curl up alongside Teddy on the floor, hush him when he drowsily attempts to sit up and then pull the blanket up over them both, whispering a quiet "perfect, yeah" to Teddy's murmured, "alright, James?"

☣

Albus finds them two nights later.

Teddy yells that it's not Albus, screams at James to 'fucking _hit him_ already!' because they're standing too close and Teddy's gun is somewhere on the floor, having skidded underneath a worktop or a table when they'd been caught off guard earlier by a zombie that had been lead to them by Albus' curious inhuman form.

Al had stood in the doorway, head cocked to the side and watching blankly as James had swung, bat connecting with the face of the first zombie. It's pale hair had been saturated with blood, patches dry and other tacky and it's gait had been crooked, one leg bent at an awkward angle, knee protruding from its sickly pale skin before it had made one last effort and knocked Teddy aside, forcing James to make one more painfully wide swing and strike it down.

James has his bat now, solid warm metal between his fingers but he doesn't strike this time. He can't. No matter what Teddy says, no matter how changed he may be, his little brother is somewhere in there, under the blood red eyes that shift between James and Teddy, the torn flesh around his temple where dark hair has been tugged free and skin is pulled away from his scalp, bone stained red and fingernails torn from his hands from his earlier (successful) attempt to make his way into James and Teddy's hiding place. He hadn't even cried out in pain when Teddy had bashed a kettle over his head, had acted as though he hadn't felt a thing and kept staggering across the floor, closer and closer to James until they were so near that James could smell the blood on Albus' breath and practically taste the rage rolling off of his skin, filling the air with fear. 

He's still now, though – watching James as he steps closer, ignoring Teddy's yelling from across the room. The eyes aren't his, his body is damaged and worn but there's a Call of Duty logo on his ripped, bloody shirt and his favourite jeans are held up by a tattered Batman belt James bought him for his eighteenth. James can't stop calling him Albus, can't think of him as anything but the boy he'd called a wanker since childhood and pushed in the pool earlier this summer. He wants to believe there's hope for saving him, that the hesitation in the thing before him is because _Albus_ is in there, fighting whatever has hold of him for James' sake and Teddy's.

If there's a chance, even a small hope, he can't kill him.

James drops the bat, metal clanking against the floor and Teddy screams again, loud and close and James swears the walls shake with the sound as he puts his hand out toward Albus and says, "Come on, Al – _fight it_."

Then there's a thump and a shriek, louder than Teddy's and James head hurts with the force of it. He feels a hand, wet with blood and wrangled, broken fingers half-clasping over his wrist before he feels the blood across his face, hears the wet, brutal smack of metal and bone and falls gracelessly to the floor.

Teddy hits Al twice more – heavy, savage swings that splatter brain matter and blood over the walls, himself and James. The muscles in his shoulder flex, his biceps wide under the thin cotton of his t-shirt before he adds a third hit for good measure and stumbles back, landing with a solid thump on his arse before he raises his knees, hides his face in his hands and repeats, "Christ, Christ, _Christ_ " until his words can't escape any more between the tight, hushed sound of his sobs.

James can't look away from Al's face, cheek pressed against dark floor boards, wet with the blood that drips slowly over Al's forehead, sliding from his temple and gathering around his eyes, between his eyelashes before rolling over his nose and his cheek and puddling around his face.

He feels so little but he knows he should be terrified, screaming or in pain – _something_. Anything is better than the void than settles in his chest, consumes him in the few short breaths he takes before he manages to force himself to blink – just once – and refocus on what's left of Al.

Even now, red eyes lifeless and body unmoving, it's impossible to not see Al's smile when he'd slapped his palm against James' the night before it all ended, when he'd yelled, "Fuck you, Jamie! I won that round!" and pointed his finger viciously against the screen of the telly, mashing it over the score under his name. It had been undeniably larger than James'.

At the time he'd pretended to be annoyed that his little brother had managed to best him, secretly pleased that he'd trained such a great gamer, and he'd tugged Al down to the floor with him, forced him to fall flat on his arse and had wrapped an arm around his neck, drawn him close and then mussed his hair while Al demanded to be let go, screamed, "James, you arse! Stop it! Stop it!" laughing the entire time, his leaner, shorter body shaking with his giggles beside James'. 

It's not a bad last memory to hold on to. He just wishes he would have known it would end this way. He might have said something more than, "I'm having an off day, I'll kick your arse next time" and he might have told Al he'd done a great job or mentioned how lucky he's always felt to have such an awesome little brother; even when Al was at his worst, he was still better than some of James' mates' siblings at their best.

And _Lily_. Fuck. He can't even remember their last real conversation, more than sleepy "good morning"s or "good night"s. She was always on the run, the social sibling who had more friends than she did minutes in the day and who smiled so wide the whole world had to shield their eyes from her pure, unreserved _happiness_.

"Fuck, James," Teddy moans as he pulls his face away from his legs, bloody forearm still hiding his eyes from view as his lips moved slowly, repeating: "Fuck, James. What the – _Fuck_."

Teddy pulls his arm away from his face, brings his fingers to his scalp and tugs his overlong hair until he obviously can't take the pain anymore and groans, sounding both angry and sad and unsure all at once. He stands, fingers retreating to form fists at his side as he nears James, still laying across the floor where Teddy's hands had pushed him, saved him from what he can only remember as Albus' parted lips, teeth dark and vicious in the rising sunlight. "What was your big plan, arsehole? Go down with the rest of them?"

Maybe. What's the point, now? Lily is gone, he heard her screams even if he was too far away to watch his dad take care of her himself. If Al is one of them then his parents must be gone, too. He knows them too well, knows that they would have thrown themselves in front of Albus in a heartbeat to try and save him.

He should have tried harder to find them after that night, after they'd split up so he could lead the others away but even inhuman, Lily was still rather small and his dad, near mad with thoughts about finding a cure and waiting for the government, had claimed he wanted to make the madness stop himself, no matter how hard it might have been.

_Christ._ At least if he would have stayed, they would have all died together.

Devon is empty, practically devoid of any remaining life. It's been weeks since he's seen other humans. Teddy was the first in ages and even then, the people he'd met before were all practically lifeless already. They were moving but not struggling to survive, just as accepting of the inevitable as James is now.

"Get up." Teddy tugs James' arm, yanks him so hard it hurts and repeats his demand, louder this time. " _Up_ , James. _Get up_."

James doesn't have to really get himself up. Teddy does most of the work, two hands on James' biceps tugging for all he's worth before he lets James slump against the wall while he shoves the few tins they have left in his satchel and kicks over the table and the sofa, grabbing his gun when he finally finds it under the tiny telly stand in the far corner.

"What are you doing?" James asks, stumbling along behind Teddy when he begins to pull him down the stairs. The street is thankfully deserted and the sun is low in the sky, rising slowly over the horizon when Teddy kicks open the shattered remains of the café door and pulls James out. Glass crunches under his shoes, blood splatter across his trousers bright in the morning light when he finally lets go, trusts James enough to follow without having to be guided.

"Where are we going?" James isn't even curious anymore; he's worried about the firm set of Teddy's face, the desperation in his gaze as he moves down the street, torn newspapers flapping in the summer breeze and quiet noises sounding from the boarded flats around them, zombies awake and watching but unwilling to come after them in the sun.

Teddy doesn't answer. He quickens his pace, satchel slapping against his side as they make their way down Tor Hill Road, turning on Croft Hill and following the empty street. There's a white villa before the bend, trees laying flat over the dead lawn and windows busted across the patio but in its drive is a car, driver door propped open and no blood across its smooth grey paint.

Mumbling, "Thank Christ" and "Stay right here", Teddy moves forward, easing up alongside the unbattered metal and peering in its windows cautiously before glancing around the area as though the owner might be watching from the window, prepared to yell at Teddy to stay away from their car.

They're likely dead, rotting away in the house or _undead_ and moving restlessly in the shadows of one of the other homes on the street. 

When he yells, "Yes!" James moves forward, kicking stray rocks and dirty bits of metal out of his way as he approaches the opposite side and finds Teddy in the driver's seat, a set of keys in dangling from the ignition and a glowing light on the dash telling him the car has a full tank of petrol.

"It's a Nissan," Teddy announces, sounding a cross between ridiculously pleased and frighteningly unsure, "and an automatic, but it's big and it's got four-wheel drive so I think we'll be able to plow over anything that stands in front of us, yeah?"

It's the most light-hearted thing he's said since James first saw him, a glimpse of the way he used to be before their relationship went to shit and the world followed two years later.

Pleased with Teddy's happiness, James nods through the unsure, desperate feeling in the pit of his stomach that begs him to stay here because Devon is _home_ and leaving is just one more step toward accepting that this is what his life has become.

Slowly, he lifts himself with one foot on the rail and falls into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut behind him and twisting the knobs on the CD player until Leona Lewis' voice floods the interior, Better in Time blasting through the speakers as Teddy reverses over a lamp post torn from the pavement and then turns swiftly down the road, engine roaring as he speeds up and takes off. 

"I talked to Victoire the day before mobile service went out in York. She was on holiday visiting her parents in Cornwall and they were unaffected still. It's been nearly three weeks but there's some hope, yeah? The virus seemed to move away from the coast; hearing about Devon falling was a shock to the news. Maybe they're still better off there."

He lets Teddy think what he wants and hopes, for both of their sakes, that there's a touch of truth to what Teddy says.

☣

Their trip takes half the time it usually would. It's a thirty minute drive, littered with upturned cars and unmoving bodies scattered the side of the road but, thankfully, they encounter nothing that moves or aims to follow them and when they arrive in Cornwall, they find it beautifully, blissfully empty.

There are no signs of the same chaos there'd been in Devon – no blood stains the pavement and no torn, tattered luggage is left in the middle of the street. Beaten, empty cars are non-existent as they step away from their own car.

Most of the shops are actually locked up, curtains drawn tight and closed signs hanging from their doors. Water laps against the cliffs not so far off, the sound of waves splashing against the rocks eerily similar to what James remembers from his childhood, as though it's just another day in August and the world is just as it should be.

Minus 62 million people or more, of course.

"I'm not sure if I should be worried or pleased," Teddy murmurs, his voice almost too loud in the quiet. He steps back to shut the door, eases his hand along the bonnet of the car and then over the front headlight before sighing deeply, eyes scanning the empty space. James follows his motions, leaving his door open but moving forward, close to Teddy when Teddy says, "We'll try Victoire's mum and dad's house, see if there's some kind of hint there, yeah?"

If he expects James to disagree, he's not waiting for it. He climbs back in the car, turns the key and lets the engine rumble to life again before he pulls off down the deserted street, closer to the sand and the sea.

☣

James finds the note first. Teddy's priority is clearing the house, making sure there are no undead hidden in the cupboards or the bedrooms upstairs, waiting to strike. James, though, has spent enough time around the zombies to know that they don't often enter locked houses without busting through windows or doors and his Uncle Bill and Aunt Fleur's house is in perfect condition, just as pristine as when he visited four summers previous for a week. There are still shells embedded in the walls, the sound of the waves against the shore is still soft and audible through the cracks beneath the doors and the same wind chime he remembers carding is fingers through is hanging in the kitchen, a glimmer of music filling the kitchen as he passes his fingers through it for old time's sake.

The note is on the table, pressed white paper stark against the dark oak and Victoire's handwriting is a bit unsteady, rushed and imperfect but he can read it easily enough after years of deciphering his dad's handwriting and Al's. Teddy's footsteps are loud overhead, each door creaking as he pushes it open and then pulls it closed, all while James' eyes scan each line of the letter, fingers growing steadily more shaky as he nears the end.

Teddy says, "What did you find?" when he walks into the kitchen, tugging open the cupboards without passing James a real glance. He looks confused when James just shoves the letter toward him, unsure of what to say in light of the new information. 

_Teddy,_

_There is a mandatory evacuation for all cities not affected by the virus. They're forcing us out but please know that we waited for you as long as we could. I stocked the pantry with what was left in the shops, left plenty of wooden boards in the basement and can only hope you're late because you meant to be, not because something happened. If you managed to get yourself killed trying to save James I will be both very proud of you and very angry with you. I told you to come here and you ignored me to go on a rescue mission._

_If it had been for anyone else, I might have killed you myself._

_That silly boy has no idea what he gave up and neither do you. I hope this gives you both a reason to reconsider your previous words and make the best of the worst situation known to man._

_If this is the end of the world, Teddy, at least die knowing what you feel for each other is real. Don't let pride ruin this for you. It may be the last chance you ever have and, if you were too late, know that there's always a second chance waiting in the future for those who love enough to deserve it._

_Yours, Victoire_

James watches Teddy's fingers trace the swift swoop of her 'V' and takes a deep breath, suddenly unsure of himself when Teddy looks up, blue eyes deep and wide and unreadable.

"We'll go get washed up in the sea, nail up the boards she mentioned and get some rest; we deserve it," he murmurs, refusing to look James in the eye as he brushes past.

☣

A day later, fresh and finally dried from their most recent bath in the sea, Teddy pushes a lock of hair away from his eyes and says, "I was late because I went for you."

James considers himself in the mirror, his bare, tan chest and the way his dark brows draw together, his eyes suddenly softening at Teddy's words. His hair is a mess, uneven and laced with pale streaks from the sun and the sea water. The red in it is getting brighter every day, turning it more bronze than brown and he kind of finds himself missing his dark hair but is appreciative of the fact that he has a bit of his mum and his dad in his face – his mum's brown eyes, his dad's lips and chin and a mix of them over his crown, layered over his forehead and around his eyes.

It's a comforting reminder of where he came from, kind of like Teddy's voice as he steps behind him and says, "I couldn't come here without you, without finding you." His face is soft, open and unsure beside James' in the mirror, waiting patiently for James to say something – approval, denial. 

Teddy looks cleaner now, more alive. His face is shaven, dirt, grim and blood scrubbed from his skin finally, after an hour a day for a week in the ocean. His shirt is no longer splattered with Al's blood or the blood of the other zombie they'd killed that night. His nails are clean, fingers long as he brushes his knuckles against James' cheek tenderly and adds a whispered, "I spent two years wondering what I could have said or done to fix it. I wanted to quit that damn job more often then I wanted to wake up for it and the only reason I stayed was because I wanted to prove you wrong. Fucking stupid now, yeah? I wasted time being an arsehole when I could have been with you. Maybe, if we'd all been together, your parents and –"

James shakes his head, turns and presses his finger to Teddy's lips. "No maybes. I hate maybes."

Quietly, so soft that even though their lips are mere inches from each other and their breath is mingling between their lips, James almost doesn't hear it, Teddy murmurs, "Christ, you have no idea how fucking miserable I was without you."

Their lips are chapped from weeks without unlimited water, their skin is flushed and they both smell like salt and sweat. Warmth seeps through Teddy's shirt as he pushes forward but their mouths stay parted, James' back against the pale blue wall of the bathroom and Teddy's breath quick in his chest, expanding and compressing and _alive_ as he finally presses against James. It only takes a moment to realise that this is likely the end of the world, that any moment now they could be attacked and that he can think of no better way to die now than having this – Teddy's fingers against his face and neck, his lips pressing against James' eagerly, as though even breathing can't keep them apart and the sharp line of his hip bones against James' as his hands trail down James' sides, over each outline of his ribs and then to the edge of his over-sized trousers, the elastic of his pants slipping down his legs with ease that hadn't existed when he'd been eating five or more meals a day and shooting zombies on his television screen because it was _fun_.

Those times feel like so long ago and Teddy's body is different, too – new and unexplored, a perfect example of starting over when their lips meet again and Teddy swallows James' moans with his own mouth, tongue lapping over James' lips and hands refusing to stop trailing every line of James' body as James' hands follow a similar pattern over Teddy's skin, the thick muscles of shoulders and the firmness of his biceps, down to the soft hair that trails from his navel and lower still, pleased to find that Teddy's moans are the same now as they were before the world went to shit – a reminder of times that were better, when they fucked desperately because they were desperate for each other, not because they were desperate to be as close as they possibly could before anything else took a turn for the worse.

From the second they manage to stumble from the bathroom, lips still attached and hands still roaming to the moment they wake up in the guest bedroom of Shell Cottage, the sound of the sea's soft tides floating in through the cracked window, the sheets and the air and Teddy's skin all smelling of salt and promise, it's as if the world might actually be alright.

☣

James doesn't realise until he's standing at the edge of the cliff, Teddy's blood red eyes and twisted, roaring face a few short steps away from him that Teddy, when he'd been human, hadn't been entirely correct. There was a reason Lily had stumbled outside of the hiding place James had with his parents before they were separated, a reason Albus had managed to find James in that café when no other zombie had even bothered with the building and a reason that Teddy's inhuman form had stumbled back from town, almost ten kilometres from where he'd been to find James in the kitchen. 

There is still a bit of them somewhere in there, struggling and aching and attempting to be better – to fight what controls them and makes them so bloodthirsty that no one is safe, not even those they love with every bit of what they used to be and the infection _feels_ it, is drawn to it.

It's the same reason Teddy's inhuman chest is expanding so rapidly it looks like it might burst at any moment, that his head keeps twitching away from James and his eyes only focus for a single second on James' before he roars and tears his gaze away again.

If the state of his hands are any conclusion, Teddy had put up quite the fight. There are cuts along his forearms, tears in his shirt and his shorts are ripped at the edge, splattered with blood that is either his own or that of whoever bit him. His face is bruised, cheek purple and lip split and James struggles to hold down the desire to run his thumb over it, wish it better because they'd only had their peace for two weeks and there were signs that they might survive – planes that flew low over the coast and buzzing, static-filled reports of the infection slowing down, of the zombies starving to death in the streets of London and Manchester – that had given them _hope_.

They'd been fools to think they'd make it when so many others hadn't.

Teddy screams again, steps forward and then stumbles back, caught between wanting to run at James and wanting to turn away.

It's Teddy warring with the infection, fighting it to save James and James can't stand watching it.

He shouldn't bother fighting it, though. The only reason James has tried to survive since Al's death has been for Teddy – _because of Teddy_. Without him, he's back to square one.

Plus, there will be more. If they're starving then they're probably trying to find food in the places they might have feared before, moving outward to the coast in hopes of surviving – a human instinct in an entirely inhuman species.

Not entirely – not really. His family has proved that much.

James steps back, half of his foot resting on nothing but air. The sea is loud behind him, beneath him and grey clouds overhead signal a storm drawing close. The tide is rising, slapping against the rocks of the cliff furiously and promising a quick death should anyone choose to join them down below.

For a second it almost looks like Teddy's eyes are the same infinite shade of clear, sea blue as they'd been when he was alive, when they were framed by dark lashes and when his voice was warm and comforting, breath sweet against James' ear when he whispered, "I'm sorry I waited so long; I'm sorry it took all of this to realise," just the night before, shushing James when he'd tried to return the sentiment, tried to remind Teddy that it was just as much his fault – more so – than Teddy's.

"I can't kill you," James says firmly, his voice unwavering and his mind made up as faces Teddy's body, writhing as it fights itself before him. "I know that's what you want but... I want to think that maybe, if I don't, that there might be another chance for us and – Fuck, Teddy, I'm _selfish_ ; I just can't do that to you when I know that you're _in there_ somewhere, _looking_ at me and listening to me and fighting to save me because –"

He doesn't cry. He can't. Tears are for the weak, not for survivors.

"Because I want to think that maybe, just maybe, there's a chance we get to try this again – the right way, without the fucking apocalypse to guide us back, yeah?"

Then there's cool, salty air against his back and the sound of Teddy's too-human scream above him, waves growing louder and louder with every passing second and when he closes his eyes, allows himself to stop thinking and just feel, everything seems like it might be okay.

His body meets the sea with a splash, a second splash following a split second later. The sound of both is swallowed by a rolling moment of thunder in the sky, lightening so bright that, for a single moment, everything _glows_. 

It's a beautiful way for the world to end.

☼

  
 __

epilogue

The newspaper on the table says 'Fire Tragedy at Historic Home' and is dated June 22nd, 2012. Lily raises a brow when he presses the back of his hand to her forehead and, almost frantically, asks, "Are you feeling well?"

She replies, " _I_ am. Clearly _you_ are not" and Albus laughs from his seat across the table, milk dribbling down his chin and shooting from his nose before coughs, half-choking and adds, "Why are you carrying that bat around? Waiting for someone to attack you in the kitchen?"

"You have no fucking idea," James whispers, fingers clenching over the metal base as he turns on his heel, pausing in the threshold of the room to turn back around and wrap an arm around each of them, pull them close and say, sincerely, "I don't tell you guys often enough how lucky I am to have you." Then, swiftly, he rises and gives them both a firm smack on the back of the head, "for trying to kill me," he explains to their angry faces, lifting his bat in a gesture he means to be warning though he knows if history is meant to repeat itself, he still wouldn't be able to hurt either of them.

After, just to be sure, he stomps down the hall to the front door and throws it open. It's hot outside, bright and devoid of the eerie silence James had experienced on the _first_ June 22nd, The Morning Everything Went to Absolute Shit. There are children skating down the pavement, cars pulling from their drives and no one is hobbling on broken legs, bones protruding through their too-white skin and raw, torn throats emitting cries of rage and hunger as they move.

Behind him, in the living room, his dad says, "James, close the door; you're letting all the cool air out. Your mum will have kittens if she finds you with that thing wide open."

Despite his dad's protests, his called, "James, you're twenty years old; you can't manage to shut a door?" James leaves the door wide open. He steps to the back of the couch, says, "You're great, you know?" and then moves on, letting the sunlight fill the front of the house as he bounds up the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reaches the top landing.

His mum is standing there, her ginger hair tied in a messy bun at the base of her neck. She says, "What's your dad yelling about?" and looks surprised, a touch confused when he throws his arms around her shoulders and says, "It's so fucking good to see you" and _means_ it.

From his room he can hear her awe-struck voice as she says, "Harry, what's happened to your son?" and his father's confused, "Hell if I know, Gin."

There are six missed rings on his mobile, all of them from Teddy. Before he can dial the too familiar number, ever after all this time, the house phone rings and Lily calls from downstairs for James to 'get his weird arse downstairs' because 'it's Teddy and he sounds just as crazy as you!'.

"You fucking stupid, selfish pillock!" is what he receives as replay to breathless, slightly anxious hello.

"You remember then?" James asks. "All of it? _Everything_?"

For a second Teddy is quiet, his breath uneven through the speaker. Then, quietly, he says, " _Fuck_ , James, I tried to kill you and you just _stood_ there."

"You wouldn't have done it."

"But I _could_ have and you – Christ, James – and you can't even say you didn't understand because you _told_ me you knew what I wanted!" 

James doesn't say anything. He can't deny that he refused to grant Teddy his last wish, deciding to grant his own instead. It was selfish and stupid to face a creature beyond reason and control and speak to it, even if he knew that Teddy was in there somewhere.

"I followed you," Teddy says after a moment. James hears a door slam, the gentle rumble of a car engine starting. "I felt when you hit the water before I did; it was terrifying, more terrifying than when that thing attacked me. And, I'll have you know, that I killed it before the infection took me. It and I were all that was there; you could have lived if you'd just killed me, James."

"What would the point have been?" 

It's a serious question, one that he'd asked himself a dozen times over the weeks he'd struggled to avoid the infection. Would life be worth living alone? Or was there more to it than just breathing and eating, feeling the air on your face and the water over your feet? 

Did he live for the _people_ in his life or the _things_ in his life?

The answer was simple enough.

"You're on your way," James says, knowing without asking and Teddy says, "Of course I am."

James smiles, his chest so full it almost aches and he loves the feeling in comparison to the void he'd felt laying on the floor beside Al's lifeless body, as though the world has ended and begun anew again, given him a second chance to make all of his wrongs right and say all the things he should have before.

Hope is no longer something he's willing to deny himself; it is a gift, precious and respected. 

"What do you think happened?"

James pauses, his fingers still over the edge of the stairs. He considers all the possibilities, miracles and phenomena and can only think back to Victoire's letter, her parting words of wisdom. "Maybe we earned it. Maybe we showed whatever handles this sort of thing that we deserved more time, a second chance to make things right on our own terms, like Victoire said."

"On our own terms?"

"Our own, zombie-free terms," James assures, sitting at the edge of the stairs and watching through the open door as the clouds move to reveal the sun.

And, for a moment, the whole world _glows_.


End file.
